


To Lift You Up

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-slash if you like, Yuletide 2013 Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friend in need...</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lift You Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uniquepov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniquepov/gifts).



> A Yuletide treat for you, because I love your Lewis fic!

_Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow; but woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up._  
\- Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, Revised Standard Version

* * *

“You haven’t forgotten that I have the next few days off, sir?” 

Robbie looks up as James pauses by his desk before heading out to conduct a second interview with one of the witnesses on their current case. “What, forget that my sergeant’s taking three days’ leave with bugger-all notice at a bloody inconvenient time? Hardly.” James glances away, though not before Robbie’s noticed his expression. Interesting. Whatever it is he’s doing, he’d prefer to be here, apparently. “I’m winding you up, man,” he adds with a long-suffering look. “You enjoy your time off.”

And that’s definitely a pained expression. “It’s not exactly that kind of leave, sir.” The bloke winces and immediately turns on his heel to stride out of the office – exactly what he does when he knows he’s said too much. 

Not that kind of leave. Not pleasure, then, but that was already obvious. Something he’s looking forward to about as much as a visit to the dentist to have a tooth pulled. And something he doesn’t want his governor to know about, given how he’s avoided mentioning anything at all about what he’s doing. Of course, getting information from James as a rule is often like getting blood from a stone, but normally he’d have no problem talking about his plans for a weekend away, or one of his cultural visits to some obscure European destination for his summer holidays. This time, not a dicky-bird.

Some kind of medical issue, then? Elective surgery of some sort, maybe? But surely he’d take that as sick leave and not holiday.

Robbie leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and ponders. It’s not that he’s being nosy – well, maybe a bit. It’s more that it’s never a good sign when James is this secretive about something. It always seems to lead to trouble, and mostly trouble for James himself.

His phone rings then, and he has to abandon contemplation of his sergeant’s planned activities and instead focus on the update from forensics on their current case.

* * *

As James is gathering up his things before leaving, Robbie says casually, “Fancy a pint tomorrow evening, then? Unless you don’t care for spending time with your governor when you’re on leave, o’ course.”

Again, there’s a momentary hesitation before James answers, and his tone’s carefully neutral. “Obviously, ordinarily that would be the highlight of my day, sir, but unfortunately I won’t be in Oxford.” He starts to leave, then halts. “I’m leaving in the morning, but I could phone you when I get back, if you like. That should be some time on Sunday late afternoon.”

Robbie nods. “Yeah, do that. Safe journey, then.”

More information: whatever James is doing, it’s not in Oxford, and it’s either far enough away that he isn’t commuting, or it requires him to be there in the evenings. With almost anyone else, Robbie would assume the lad’s visiting family – but then, anyone else would say so. Where James is concerned, Robbie doesn’t even have a clue whether the bloke has family. In almost six years, there’s been one mention of his father, and an anecdote about an aunt who died of motor neurone disease.

Does he have family? Family he’s estranged from? And is he having to visit them for some reason? Oh, Christ, is it a death in the family? 

He’s always said he’d never do it, but something about this situation is setting all Robbie’s instincts for trouble on alert. He switches screens on his computer, and starts a search for Hathaways born, married or with any other official records in Oxfordshire.

Ten minutes later, he knows a lot more about his bagman, and is balancing guilt at invading James’s privacy against the knowledge that he now understands his sergeant much better. Mother dead from cirrhosis by the time he was nine; reports filed with social workers over the next two or three years of suspicions that James was being physically abused, but nothing substantiated; and a record of the death of Peter Hathaway, James’s father, in a car accident when James was eighteen. Alcohol a factor, according to the police report.

Bloody hell, James has been on his own since he was barely an adult. Though, reading between the lines of what he’s seen, Robbie would surmise that the bloke’s been alone a lot longer than that. No wonder he finds it so difficult to form relationships – even friendships.

And here’s another result – a Martin Hathaway, originally from Oxfordshire, but a police report of a sudden death in Stoke-on-Trent two days ago. No suspicious circumstances; the man was apparently found dead in his council flat, believed to be of a heart attack. Another search quickly determines that this man was the brother of Peter Hathaway – James’s uncle.

So, at a guess, James is off to the Potteries for a funeral. Yet Robbie’d lay odds he had little or nothing to do with his uncle, at least in recent years. Why’s he planning to be away for three days, and not just one?

His gut’s still bothering him. Robbie picks up the phone and rings the officer from Staffordshire Police who reported Martin Hathaway’s death.

* * *

The following morning, Robbie is waiting outside James’s flat when the bloke exits, dressed in a suit and shirt, but no tie. James falters, stares, then says, stiffly, “What are you doing here, sir?”

“Thought I might share the driving with you. Know the M40 and M6 like the back of me hand, the times I’ve been up and down to Manchester.”

James flinches. “I’m not even going to ask how you know, but it’s none of your business.”

“I know that. I’ll apologise for bein’ nosy, if you want. But – if you’ll forgive an interfering old sod of a governor – I think you could do with the company.” 

At that, James’s guard slips and his shoulders slump. “I... it’s too much to ask, sir. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“Told Innocent I wanted to take me lieu time. There’s nothing at the nick that can’t wait.” Robbie gestures to his car. “You want to drive first, or will I?”

* * *

“How much do you know?”

They’re well past Birmingham and almost at Stafford when James finally confronts the subject he’s avoided ever since they left. Robbie glances briefly at him before refocusing on the busy motorway. “Bare facts. You were identified as your uncle’s next of kin, and apparently there’s no other family that anyone knows of. Local police asked you to come.”

“I have to sort out funeral arrangements as well as his estate.” James’s voice is tight. “I doubt there’s a will, but then he won’t have left much. I’ve already checked bank records,” he adds, faint apology in his tone; of course, he’ll have used police clearances for that, which is definitely not within the guidelines of permitted use. Not that Robbie has any intention of saying anything.

As Robbie suspected, this visit is going to involve far more than just attending a funeral. He keeps his tone casual. “Was the same when Val’s Auntie Sissy died. There wasn’t any other family left, so Val and I had to sort out all the legal stuff and clear out her house. Though she lived in Wolvercote. S’pose that made it easier.”

James drums his fingers on his knee. “I’ve had no contact with him for almost twenty years.”

Robbie nods. “What d’you have to do first? See the police, or Social Services?”

“Social Care Services. They’re in Newcastle under Lyme, apparently, but cover the Stoke area as well.” James keys the address into the GPS.

“Right. And by the way, I know you didn’t ask me to be here. If you want me to bugger off and amuse myself while you’re in meetings, just say so.”

James tilts his head back until he’s staring at the sun-roof, and Robbie counts several distance markers on the road before the bloke speaks again. “If you really don’t mind... I’d appreciate the moral support.”

* * *

“You’ve booked somewhere to stay, yeah?” Robbie asks over lunch at a cafe in Newcastle town centre. They’ve already had a meeting with Martin Hathaway’s social worker, who confirmed that the cause of death was a heart attack. The bloke was on disability – diabetes and an existing heart condition – lived alone, and hardly ever went out. By the sound of it, the flat’s in a state, and it needs to be cleared out as soon as possible, as it’s needed for a new tenant. The social worker was apologetic about that, but there’s a long waiting list for council housing.

“A B&B just up the road from here.” James pulls out his phone. “I should phone to get a room for you.”

It’s not difficult to figure out that his quest isn’t successful. James looks apologetic as he ends the call. “They’re fully booked.”

Robbie nods. “No worries. There’s bound to be somewhere else.”

“The owner doubted it, sir. Apparently it’s open day at Keele tomorrow – that’s the local university.”

“Yeah, heard of it.” Robbie grins. “Was infamous in the early seventies. Apparently, some students stripped off and paraded around starkers in protest against Princess Margaret, who was visiting. Made all the front pages.”

“And I chose to go to Cambridge,” James murmured, his lips twitching faintly. “We could phone around, sir, but my booking’s a double room. If you don’t mind sharing...?”

“Fine with me, as long as you’re okay with it.”

James doesn’t look up from his phone. “Of course, sir.”

* * *

By early evening, James is coiled tight as a spring, and Robbie’s just waiting for him to snap.

They’ve seen the police; nothing to be done there, other than signing forms that let James take possession of the key to his uncle’s flat and of personal effects that the hospital passed on to the Stoke police station. Next stop was a local solicitor; although James is next of kin, there’s no will that anyone is aware of and no arrangements can be made without power of attorney. That takes a few hours – and, Robbie’s certain, a hefty bill to follow. And then there was the funeral director. That time, James asked Robbie, very politely and formally, if he’d mind waiting outside. All he’s said since is that arrangements have been made for a private funeral and cremation the day after tomorrow.

And just how James is paying for all this, Robbie has no idea.

On the surface, James has seemed efficient, professional and capable. But Robbie’s not fooled. This isn’t the cool, collected and supremely competent man he works with on a daily basis. This, once again, is James struggling with inner demons as a result of his past intruding on the present. And Robbie’s very glad that he listened to his gut and insisted on coming with James.

At his suggestion, they find a pub out in the country for dinner. A bit of Googling shows that this area has several highly-rated free houses, and it’ll do James no harm to get out of this town for a couple of hours. Dinner is very good, and so is the beer, even if conversation leaves something to be desired. James is taciturn, giving monosyllabic answers to most conversational overtures and looking twitchy as hell. It’s not difficult to work out that he’s expecting Robbie to ask questions that he doesn’t want to answer. But Robbie’s got no intention of asking questions anyway. If James wants to tell him, well and good; if not, it’s none of his business. He’s here for moral support, that’s all.

They check into the B&B shortly before ten, getting a very curious look from the landlady as James signs in and collects the key, and head upstairs to the room James booked. “I hope it’ll be all right, sir,” he says as he unlocks the door. “This place did have good reviews–”

James breaks off abruptly as the door swings open, and a moment later Robbie can see why. It’s a double room, all right – with one double bed.

“I’m – I’m sorry, sir. It never occurred to me...” James’s usually pale face is flushed pink. “I can sleep in the armchair.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Robbie brushes past him, into the surprisingly spacious and attractive room. “I’m the one who came along uninvited.” He presses down on the mattress with his hand; it’s firm but comfortable. “Decent double bed. I’m okay sharing if you are.” He grins. “I’ll even promise to keep me cold feet to meself.”

That only gets a faint, very fleeting smile from James. Nothing to do with embarrassment over having to share a bed with his boss, Robbie’s very certain, and everything to do with the strain the lad’s under. Robbie knows it’s not grief but, despite watching James very carefully during the day, he still has no idea what the cause is. 

Just because he won’t ask doesn’t mean he’s not interested in the reason why; it’s just that experience has taught him, with James, that asking is the worst thing he can do. The best thing is to find a way to distract him – even if it irritates him.

So, once they’ve both changed into sleepwear, using the bathroom one at a time, Robbie comments as he pulls back the quilt, “Won’t be the first time I’ve shared a bed with a bloke.” James gives him a sharp, almost stunned look. “An’ before you come out with any of your witticisms, it was work.” He settles himself on the pillows as James slides into bed, appearing to stay as close to the edge as possible. “We complain about police budgets now, but back in the Dark Ages when I was a DC, things were much worse. If we were ever sent somewhere on a job where we had to stay overnight, we were expected to share. Soon learned to pack earplugs.”

“Perhaps you were the snorer, sir.” He can almost hear a very faint smirk in James’s tone.

“Oi, you.” But Robbie’s smiling as he turns off the light.

* * *

James is already up when Robbie wakes the following morning, and by the look of it he’s been out for a smoke. Although Robbie well recognises the signs of a sleepless night when he sees them, he ignores the evidence and just gives James a casual “Morning,” on his way to the bathroom.

Top of their list today is Martin Hathaway’s flat; James explains over breakfast that his task isn’t just clearing it out, but also looking for any important documents, either financial or legal. A life or funeral insurance policy would come in useful, Robbie thinks. As for the task ahead of them, it’s one neither of them is a stranger to, though James, at least, has not had to do it for a relative – at least, as far as Robbie’s aware.

Preparing for the worst, Robbie brings forensic gloves in from the car, and is immediately glad that he did. The flat’s filthy. He doesn’t know, and James probably doesn’t either, whether Martin Hathaway had home help from Social Services, but he certainly needed it. And besides the accumulated dirt and grime, the man was a hoarder: stacks of newspapers are piled up inside the sitting-room, and the hall is full of boxes of cigarette cards – not, Robbie notes, in saleable condition, which is a pity.

It’s tragic, all the same, that a man’s died without anyone to mourn him properly or see the things he’s left behind as anything but detritus and rubbish. James is a relative, but not one who was at all close to the dead man, and clearly would prefer to be anywhere but here.

James takes a deep breath. “Let’s just concentrate on looking for paperwork for now? I know the whole place has to be cleared out, but I’ll have to figure out how I tackle that later.” His shoulders slump visibly. “I’ll probably have to ask for an extra couple of days’ leave and come back up.”

_Over my dead body_ , Robbie thinks, but says nothing. He’ll sort it later. For now, they divide up rooms to search.

It’s only a one-bedroom flat, with four rooms in total including the bathroom, but it still takes them three hours to search everywhere documents could conceivably be hidden. And, of course, it’s Sod’s bloody law that means James finds what he’s looking for in the last place he looks: between the mattress and the base.

“Insurance policy,” he pronounces. “Looks like something he took out through the union when he was working. Supposed to cover funeral expenses with a little left over.” James shows Robbie the papers. “Of course, that rather assumes that he kept paying the premiums.”

Robbie shrugs. “Phone the insurance company – if they’re open today?”

“There’s a number.” James makes the call, and he’s nodding as he hangs up. “Fully paid. Which is something – I was thinking I’d need to apply for a loan to cover all this.”

That’s something Robbie was afraid of too, and he knows James well enough to be aware that he’d never accept help from Robbie. “Come on.” He pats James’s shoulder. “Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut. Lunch is on me – spotted a cafe on the way over that looks decent.”

Over lunch, he makes his other suggestion: getting a clearance service in. Yes, it’ll cost, but it’s worth it. James looks thoughtful, then produces his phone and starts tapping and scrolling. Ten minutes later, he looks up. “You’re absolutely right, sir – it’s by far the best option. I hadn’t even thought – doing it myself, I’d need to hire at least one skip and then figure out how to dispose of everything properly and legally.” His expression’s rueful. “Too used to letting SOCO take care of everything, I suppose. Anyway, I’ll get some quotes, but it looks like it’d cost three or four hundred quid. Definitely worth it.”

Robbie’d pay for it himself if there was any chance that James would let him; the look of relief on the lad’s face at realising he won’t have to spend days in that awful flat is more than worth every penny.

* * *

The house clearance booked – and James has arranged for the clearance service to drop the keys off at Social Care Services – they try another pub for dinner. They’re both tired when they return to the B&B, and James is looking even more strained than the previous evening.

The funeral tomorrow, must be. Which surprises Robbie a bit; as a Catholic, and one who was going to be a priest, James must be well used to funerals. So obviously it’s this particular one that’s the problem.

What the bloody hell went on in the Hathaway family that any kind of contact has James this wound up? Much more pressure and the man’s going to explode.

Tonight, James shows even more disinclination to talk, and after Robbie’s initial conversational overtures tumble into silence he doesn’t try again. Ten minutes after getting back to their room, they’re in bed with the light out.

James is restless tonight, shifting position several times and keeping Robbie awake. Just as well he doesn’t need as much sleep these days as he gets older. He’d like to reach out and just wrap his arms around the bloke – when has James last had a hug? – but knows the gesture would be rejected.

And then the silence is shattered. “My uncle came to live with us after my mother died. My father was working twelve- and fifteen-hour days and my uncle was put in charge of me. He used to beat me with a cane whenever he thought I deserved it, which was most days.”

Robbie’s eyes shoot open, and his heart’s thumping so loudly he’s amazed James can’t hear it. In the dim light, he can see James lying next to him, eyes wide open as he stares at the ceiling, tension in every line of his body.

He doesn’t even consider his words. “Bastard. Anyone who can abuse a child...” And, of course, no wonder James the adult wanted nothing to do with the man. It’s astonishing that he didn’t just refuse to be involved when the Stoke police called him about Hathaway’s death.

James snorts slightly. “Compared to what Augustus Mortmaigne did to the kids on the estate, my experience seems pretty trivial.”

Robbie turns onto his side. “I saw your file. Social workers were sure you were being abused; they just couldn’t prove it.”

James’s breathing is slow and even; deliberately controlled. “Mortmaigne warned them off. He didn’t want to lose my father’s services. Until,” he adds, voice dry as desert, “my uncle did something Mortmaigne really didn’t like. I didn’t find out what that was until we were at Crevecoeur last year.” Briefly, James glances Robbie’s way. “Apparently, he had the temerity to try it on with the Marchioness.”

Funny, Mortmaigne hadn’t seemed to mind that cousin of his having it off with his second wife. Or was it that Martin Hathaway was the wrong class? Or, probably, the fact that there wasn’t a male heir to the estate then and being so obviously cuckolded would be an offence too far. 

“And he didn’t go with you when you moved?”

“Not for a while – and by then I’d got a scholarship to boarding school. And then I had a growth spurt. When I came home for the summer, I was taller than him. I think he may have felt intimidated.” James’s voice is laden with irony.

“What about your dad?” He knows he’s treading on dangerous ground here; anything to do with James’s family background is a minefield. “He never stopped the abuse? He had to have known about it.”

James expels a long breath. “He knew. He’d tell me to be good for Uncle Martin – and then there was the day the cane broke.”

Robbie frowns. “Oh?”

“My father came home the next day with a new one.” The statement’s delivered in an entirely matter-of-fact tone, as if to James the entire experience had been nothing more than routine. That, as much as the words, makes Robbie wish he’d been able to meet Peter Hathaway when the man was alive. Both older Hathaways, in fact; he would love to have put them away for a long time for what they did to James.

All he says now, though, is, “Thanks for telling me, man. You know it won’t go any further.”

“Of course I do.” James shifts, moving to lie on his side facing Robbie. “I knew you had questions, but you never asked, sir. You gave up your own free time to come with me, without knowing any of the circumstances.” James’s gaze rests on Robbie in the semi-darkness. “I’m... stunned that you’d do all that for me. To say I don’t know how to thank you is an understatement.”

Robbie pulls a face. “What are friends for, eh? You’ve done things for me I could never repay.” Simon Monkford. Chloe Brooks. A thousand tiny actions and thoughtful deeds over the years they’ve known each other, done without expectation of reward or acknowledgement. “That’s not what it’s about.”

James is silent for a long moment; when he eventually speaks, it’s soft and Robbie has to strain to hear. “ _Woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up_.”

There are a number of things he could say in response to that, but he dismisses them all as too trite. Instead, Robbie says, “D’you think you’d be okay with me givin’ you a hug? Promise I won’t make a habit of it.”

In answer, James moves towards him, and as Robbie enfolds the younger man in his arms he hears a murmur that sounds like, “Don’t think I’d mind if you did make it a habit.”

He doesn’t release James afterwards, instead keeping an arm wrapped around the bloke’s shoulders. “C’mere. We’ll both sleep better if you’re not tossing an’ turning.”

The words he uses aren’t what he really intends, but – as ever – James gets his meaning. And they sleep, still wrapped together.

* * *

James is up before him again in the morning, but only just. The younger man’s pulling on a T-shirt when Robbie wakes.

“I was just about to go out for a smoke,” James explains. “You’ll have the room to yourself for a while.”

“Think I’ll come with you,” Robbie says instead, throwing back the covers.

Outside, they stroll along the quiet suburban street, in silence at first, until Robbie says what’s been on his mind since last night. “Nothin’ says you have to go to the funeral. We could just leave.”

Why, after all, should James be forced to attend the cremation service of a man who brutalised him?

James’s hand brushes Robbie’s. “Thanks. I did consider it – but I think I need to go. For me, not him. I think... maybe being there will end it, once and for all. If that makes any sense?”

Robbie loops an arm around James’s shoulders. “It does. All right, we’ll go. Then I want lunch in that first pub we went to, before we hit the M6.”

“As if I’d let you go hungry, sir.” The curve of James’s lips is the first genuine smile he’s seen from the bloke all weekend.

“That’s what I like to see – a well-trained sergeant.” Robbie tightens his arm around James’s shoulders as he adds, “You can come to mine when we get back. Make that chicken lasagne of yours.”

“Mmm. Have to stop at Sainsbury’s on the way.”

“Hardly beyond your capabilities. And I suppose we’ll end up having a couple of beers and you’ll need to stay the night. Just as well I have a double bed. And that you have a suit for the morning.”

“Just as well.”

James lights another cigarette as they walk on, then a while later he stops on the brow of a hill overlooking the city, once grey and grimy from collieries and potbanks, now much like any other city in the Midlands. He stares into the distance for a long while, then turns to face Robbie. 

“Thank you, si– _Robbie_. It’s not just that I don’t think I could have done this without you, but that for the first time...” He pauses, taking a drag on the cigarette, then continues, “The past doesn’t matter any more.”

“Good.” He steps closer, pressing a hand to James’s shoulder and keeping it there, until James smiles suddenly.

“We should get back. I’d hate to be the cause of you missing breakfast.”

“Can’t have that, yeah.”

Abruptly, James breaks into a run. “Last one back’s a–” 

“ _Sod!_ ” Robbie shouts, chasing at his heels. And when they get back to the B&B, out of breath, they’re both laughing.

* * *


End file.
